sometimes picking up the pen 

is tiring for me now and again

though I enjoy the poetry



the poetry is all I ever wanted

to write and I am willing 

to step over the tired 

to weave the verse.

the soft whisper

of the poet's mind

scribbled madly 

on anything 

they could find...



the rhythm nor the rhyme

matters in the scheme of time 



the verse is written

as madness takes ahold.

Though nearly ninety poems 

in this volume written,

Each one is unique…

                      Telling me that writing

                      Poetry about poetry

                       can take an eternity.



And when I reach the end

and the collection is complete,

Just for fun..

                     Perhaps I will write 

                     just one more.

the pen that writes verse

is fueled with tears and blood

attached to the heart 

and ne'er has an end.



the place the verse is written

often is peeled from the skin 

of the poet's soul deep

in the depths of what is unknown.

as the poet spilled

all the words across 

the page purposefully...



the pen bled whispers

of possibility and choice

leaving the poet drained.



the drops formed words

the words formed verse

and all of them became a soul.

here I go again

picking up my pen 



I became a poet

with nary a clue 



I would always want

to scribe more 



verse to speak

my heart clearly 

writing lines of heartbroken verse
across the scars of what was once 
my flesh and skin...

my life in ink
made of tears

my soul in poetry

and the author is the one
living the verse as it is written 

perhaps writing poetry

is not the most fruitful 

of professions...



And in a capitalist society 

that feels often like a crime...



still I cannot imagine being

anything else else I would 

quite surely lose my mind.

Understand that lifting the pen

to weave poetry upon the page 

is more than writing for writing's sake,

it is releasing the emotions for others to see.



the best part is when your verse

inspires others to lift their pen,

creating poetry unending.

though it is my lifeblood
there is hours when 
writing poetry can be
more than I expected.

the truth in the verse
is a ton weight on 
a fraying rope 
hanging from my mind 
making each word
heavier than before.